A Cotswold Village by J. Arthur Gibbs

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fare. This is the reason they are so difficult to catch. One is not ableto increase the stock of trout to any great extent, thereby making themeasier to catch, because the fish one introduces into the water are aptto crowd together in one or two places, with the result that they arefar too plentiful in the shallows, where there is little food, and tooscarce in the deeper water. Of the Loch Leven trout, turned in two yearsago as yearlings, more than two-thirds inhabit the quick-running,gravelly reaches; in consequence, they have grown very little. The fewthat have stayed in the deeper water have done splendidly; they are nowabout three-quarters of a pound in weight. No fish, not even sea trout,fight so well as these bright, silvery "Loch Levens." They have cost usno end of casts and flies already this season,--not yet a month old.Experience proves, however, that ordinary _salmo fario_, or common brooktrout, are the best for turning down; for the Loch Leven trout requiredeep water to grow to any size.

When a boy, I made a strange recovery of an eel that I had hooked andlost three weeks before. I was fishing with worms in a large deep holein Surrey. My hook was a salmon fly with the feathers clipped off. Ihooked what I believed to be an eel, but he broke the line throughgetting it entangled in a stick on the bottom. Three weeks afterwards,when fishing in the same fashion and in the same place, the line gotfixed up on the bottom. I pulled hard and a stick came away. On thatstick, strange to say, was entangled my old gut casting-line, and at theend of the line was an eel of two pounds' weight! On cutting him open,there, sure enough, was the identical clipped salmon fly; it had beeninside that eel for three weeks without hurting him. This sounds like aregular angler's yarn, and nobody need believe it unless he likes;nevertheless, it is perfectly true. I had got "fixed up" in the samestick that had broken my line on the previous occasion.

That fish have very little sense of feeling is proved time after time.There is nothing unusual in catching a jack with several old hooks inhis mouth. With trout, however, the occurrence is more rare. Last seasonmy brother lost a fly and two yards of gut through a big trout breakinghis tackle, but two minutes afterwards he caught the fish and recoveredhis fly and his tackle. We constantly catch fish during the may-fly timewith broken tackle in their mouths.

Who does not recollect the rapturous excitement caused by the first fishcaught in early youth? My first capture will ever remain firmlyimpressed on the tablet of the brain, for it was a red herring--"acommon or garden," prime, thoroughly salted "red herring"! It came aboutin this way. At the age of nine I was taken by my father on a yachtingexpedition round the lovely islands of the west coast of Scotland. Wewere at anchor the first evening of the voyage in one of the beautifulharbours of the Hebrides, and, noticing the sailors fishing over theside of the boat, I begged to be allowed to hold the line. Somehow orother they managed to get a "red herring" on to the hook when myattention was diverted; so that when I hauled up a fish that in thedarkness looked fairly silvery my excitement knew no bounds. After thesailors had taken it off the hook, and given it a knock on the head, Irushed down with it into the cabin, where my father and three otherswere dining. Throwing my fish down on to the table, I delightedlyexclaimed, "Look what I have caught, father; isn't it a lovely fish?" Icould not understand the roars of laughter which followed, as one of theparty, with a horrified glance at my capture, shouted, "Take it away,take it away!" _Non redolet sed olet_. Oddly enough, although after thisI caught any amount of real live fish, I never realised until monthsafterwards how miserably I had been taken in by the boat's crew on thateventful night.

Not long afterwards, whilst fishing with a worm just below the falls atMacomber, in the Highlands, I made what was for a small boy a remarkablecatch of sea trout. I forget the exact number, but I know I had to takethem back in sacks. They were "running" at the time, and it was verypretty to see them continually jumping up the seven-foot ladder out ofthe Spean into the Lochy. Underneath this ladder, where the water boiledand seethed in a thousand eddies, hundreds of trout lay ready to jump upthe fall. Into this foaming torrent I threw my heavily leaded bait. Nosooner was the worm in the water than it was seized by a fine sea trout.Some of them were nearly two pounds; and although I had a strongcasting-line, they were often most difficult to land, for a series ofsmall cataracts dashed down amongst huge rocks and slippery boulders,until, a hundred feet below, the calm, deep Macomber pool was reached.As the fish, when hooked, would often dash down this foaming torrentinto the pool below, they gave a tremendous amount of play before theywere landed. There was an element of danger about it, too, as a falsestep might have led to ugly complications amongst the rocks, over whichthe water came pouring down at the rate of ten miles an hour. A boy oftwelve years old, as I was then, would not have stood a chance in thatroaring torrent. A terrible accident happened here a few yearsafterwards. A party went from the house, where I always stayed, to fishat Macomber Falls. There were four ladies and two men. Whilst they weresitting eating their luncheon at this romantic spot, an argument aroseas to whether a man falling into the seething pool below the fall wouldbe drowned or not. The water was only about two feet deep; but the placewas a miniature whirlpool, and, once started down the pent-in torrent, aman would be dashed along the rocky bed and carried far out into thedeep Macomber pool beyond. A gentleman from Lincolnshire argued that inwould be impossible for any one to be drowned in such shallow water.This was at lunch. Little did he imagine that within half an hour histheory would be put to the test. But so it was; for whilst he wasstanding on the rocks fishing, with a large overcoat on, he slipped andfell in. His fishing-line became entangled round his legs, and he wasborne away at the mercy of the current. Unfortunately only ladies werepresent, his friend having gone down stream. Twice he clutched hold ofthe rocky bank opposite them, but it was too slippery, and his hold gaveway. A man jumping across the chasm might possibly have saved him byrisking his own life, for it was only fourteen feet wide; but it wouldhave been madness for any of the ladies to have attempted it. So thepoor fellow was drowned in two feet of water, before their eyes, and inspite of their brave endeavours to save him. He must have been stunnedby repeated blows from the rocks, or else I think he would have baffledsuccessfully with the torrent. The overcoat must have hampered him mostdreadfully. It was a terrible affair, reminding one of the death of"young Romilly" in the Wharfe, of which Wordsworth tells in thatbeautiful poem, the "Force of Prayer." Bolton Abbey, as everybody knows,was built hard by, on the river bank, by the sorrowful mother, in honourof her boy.

"That stately priory was reared; And Wharf, as he moved along To matins, join'd a mournful voice, Nor failed at evensong."

How many a beautiful spot in the British Isles has been endowed with aromance that will never entirely die away owing to some catastrophe ofthis kind! Macomber Falls are very beautiful indeed, but one cannot passthe place now without a shudder and a sigh.

It has been said that "the test of a river is its power to drown aman." There is doubtless a peculiar grandeur about the roaring torrent;but to me there is a still greater charm in the gentle flow of a southcountry trout stream, such as abound in Hampshire, Wiltshire, and in theCotswolds. I do not think the Coln is capable of drowning a man, thoughone of the Peregrine family told me the other day that the only two menwho ever bathed in our stream died soon afterwards from the shock of theintensely cold water! But then, it must be remembered that the oldprejudice against "cold water" still lingers amongst the country folk ofGloucestershire; so that this story must always be taken _cumgrano salis_.

* * * * *

There are few trout streams to our mind more delightful from theangler's point of view than the Gloucestershire Coln. Rising a few milesfrom Cheltenham, it runs into the Thames near Lechlade, and affords somefifteen miles or more of excellent fishing. The scenery is of that quietand homely type that belongs so exclusively to the chalk and limestonestreams of the south of England.

From its source to the point at which it joins the Isis, the Coln flowscontinuously through a series of parks and small well-wooded demesnes,varied with picturesque Cotswold villages and rich water meadows. Itswells out into fishable proportions just above Lord Eldon's Stowellproperty, steals gently past his beautiful woods at Chedworth and theRoman villa discovered a few years ago, then onward through the quaintold-world villages of Fossbridge to Winson and Coln-St-Dennis. Thoughnot a hundred miles from London, this part of Gloucestershire is one ofthe most primitive and old-fashioned districts in England. Until the newrailway between Andover and Cheltenham was opened, four years ago, witha small station at Fosscross, there were many inhabitants of theseold-world villages who had never seen a train or a railway. Only theother day, on asking a good lady, the wife of a farmer, whether she hadever been in London, I received the reply, "No, but I've been toCheltenham." This in a tone of voice that meant me to understand thatgoing to Cheltenham, a distance of about sixteen miles, was quite asimportant an episode in her life as a visit to London would have been.

On leaving Winson the Coln widens out considerably, and for the next twomiles becomes the boundary between Mr. Wykeham-Musgrave's property ofBarnsley and the manor of Ablington. It flows through the picturesquehamlet of Ablington, within a hundred yards of the old Elizabethan manorhouse, over an artificial fall in the garden, and passes onward on itssecluded way through lovely woodland scenery, until it reaches thevillage of Bibury; here it runs for nearly half a mile parallel with themain street of the village, and then enters the grounds of Bibury Court.I know no prettier village in England than Bibury, and no snuggerhostelry than the Swan. The landlady of this inn has a nice littlestretch of water for the use of those who find their way to Bibury; anda pleasanter place wherein to spend a few quiet days could not be found.The garden and old court house of Bibury are sweetly pretty, the house,like Ablington, being three hundred years old; the stream passes withina few yards of it, over another waterfall of about ten feet, and soonreaches Williamstrip. Here, again, the scenery is typical of ruralEngland in its most pleasing form; and the village of Coln-St.-Aldwynsis scarcely less fascinating than Bibury.

After leaving the stately pile of Hatherop Castle and Williamstrip Parkon the left, the Coln flows silently onwards through the delightfuldemesne of Fairford Park. Here the stream has been broadened out into alake of some depth and size, and holds some very large fish. Anothermile and Fairford town is reached, another good specimen of the Cotswoldvillage--for it is a large village rather than a town--with its lovelychurch, famous for its windows, its gabled cottages, and comfortableBull Inn. There are several miles of fishing at the Bull, as many anOxonian has discovered in times gone by, and we trust will again.

From what we have said, it will easily be gathered that this stream isunsurpassed for scenery of that quiet, homely type that Kingsleyeulogises so enthusiastically in his "Chalk Stream Studies," and I aminclined to agree with him in his preference for it over the grandersurroundings of mountain streams:

"Let the Londoner have his six weeks every year among crag and heather,and return with lungs expanded and muscles braced to his nine months'prison. The countryman, who needs no such change of air and scene, willprefer more homelike, though more homely, pleasures. Dearer to him thanwild cataracts or Alpine glens are the still hidden streams which Bewickhas immortalised in his vignettes and Creswick in his pictures. The longgrassy shallow, paved with yellow gravel, where he wades up between lowwalls of fern-fringed rock, beneath nut and oak and alder, to the lowbar over which the stream comes swirling and dimpling, as thewater-ouzel flits piping before him, and the murmur of the ringdovecomes soft and sleepy through the wood,--there, as he wades, he sees ahundred sights and hears a hundred tones which are hidden from thetraveller on the dusty highway above."

But _chacun a son gout_! Let us now see what sort of sport may be had inthe Coln. To begin with, it must be described as a "may-fly" stream.This means, of course, that there is a tremendous rise of fly early inJune, with the inevitable slack time before and after the may-fly time.

But there is much pleasant angling to be had at other times. The seasonbegins at the end of March, when a few small fish are rising, and may becaught with the March brown or the blue and olive duns. Few big fish arein condition until May, but much fun can be had with the smaller onesall through April. The half-pounders fight splendidly, and give one theidea, on being hooked, of pulling three times their real weight. TheApril fishing, at all events after the middle of the month, is verydelightful in this river. One does not actually kill many fish, for alarge number are caught and returned.

In May, when the larger fish begin to take up their places for thesummer, one may expect good sport. This season, however, has been verydisappointing; and, judging by the way the fish were feeding on thebottom for the first fortnight of the month, one is led to expect anearly rise of the may-fly. Until the "fly is up," the April flies,especially the olive dun, are all that are necessary. For a couple ofweeks before the "fly-fisher's carnival" sport is always uncertain.

If the wind is in a good quarter, sport may be had; but should it beeast, the trout will not leave the caddis, with which the bed of theriver is simply alive at this time. Of late years good sport has beenobtained at the latter end of May with small flies. The may-flygenerally comes up on the higher reaches about the last week in May, orabout June 1st, though at Fairford, lower down, it is a week earlier. Agood season means a steady rise of fly, lasting for nearly three weeks,but with no great amount of fly on any one day. A bad may-fly seasonmeans, as a rule, a regular "glut" of fly for three or four days, sothat the fish are stuffed full almost to bursting point, and will notlook at the natural fly afterwards, much less at your neatly "cocked"artificial one.

Large bags can, of course, be made on certain days in the may-flyseason; but I do not know of any better than one hundred and six fish inthree days, averaging one pound apiece.

Sport, however, is not estimated by the number of fish taken, and thereis no better day's fun for the real fisherman than killing four or fivebrace of good fish when the trout are beginning to get tired of the fly,but are still to be caught by working hard for them. The "alder" willoften do great execution at this time, and a small blue dun is sometimesvery killing in the morning or evening.

After the "green-drake" has lived his short life and disappeared, thereis a lull in the fishing, and the sportsman may with advantage takehimself off to London to see the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match. Allthrough July and August, when the water gets low and clear, the best andlargest fish may be taken from an hour before sunset up to eleveno'clock at night by the red palmer. Although it savours somewhat ofpoaching, I confess to a weakness for evening and night fishing. Thecool water meadows, the setting sun, with its golden glow on the water,add a peculiar charm to fishing at this time of day in the hot summermonths. And then--the splash of your fish as you hook him! How magnifiedis the sound in the dim twilight, when you cannot see, but can only hearand feel your quarry! And what satisfaction to know that that great"logger-headed" two-pounder, that was devouring goodness knows how manyyearlings and fry daily, is safe out of the water and in your basket!

On rainy days in these months good sport may be had with the wet fly;and in September a yellow dun, or a fly that imitates the wasp, willkill, if only you can keep out of sight, and place a well-dried flyright on the fish's nose.

The dry fly and up stream is of course the orthodox method of fishing inthis as in other south-country chalk or limestone streams. No floggingthe water indiscriminately all the way up, but marking your fish down,and stalking him, is the real game. For those who fish "wet" sport isnot so good as it used to be, owing to the "schoolmaster being abroad"amongst trout as well as amongst men; but on certain windy days thismethod is the only one possible. There is a good deal of prejudiceagainst the "chuck-and-chance-it" style among the advocates of thedry-fly method of fishing. That a man who fishes with a floating flyshould be set down as a better sportsman than one who allows his fly tosink is, to my thinking, a narrow-minded argument, and one, moreover,that is not borne out by facts. True, in some clear chalk streams thefish can only be killed with the dry fly; and in such cases it isunsportsmanlike to thrash the water--in the first place, because thereis no chance of catching fish, and in the second, in the interest ofother anglers, because it is likely to make the fish shy. And thereforeit is a somewhat selfish method of fishing.

But let those accomplished exponents of the art of fishing who are toofond of applying the epithet "poacher" to all those who do not fish intheir own particular style remember that there are but few streams inEngland sluggish enough for dry-fly fishing; consequently manyfirst-rate fishermen have never acquired the art. The dry-fly angler hasno more right to consider himself superior as a sportsman to theadvocate of the old-fashioned method than the county cricketer has toconsider himself superior to the village player. In both cases time andpractice have done their work; but the best fishermen and the mostpractised exponents of the game of cricket are very often inferior totheir less distinguished brethren as _sportsmen_. At the same time, wereI asked which of all our English sports requires the greatest amount ofperseverance, the supremest delicacy of hand, the most assiduouspractice, and the most perfect control of temper, in order thatexcellence may be attained, I would unhesitatingly answer, "Dry-flyfishing on a real chalk stream"; and I would sooner have one successfulday under such conditions than catch fifty trout by flogging aScotch burn.

In the Coln the fish run largest at Fairford, where the water has beendeepened and broadened; and there three-pounders are not uncommon. Thenat Hatherop and Williamstrip there are some big fish. Higher up thetrout run up to two and a half pounds; and the average size of fishkilled after May 1st is, roughly speaking, one pound. The higher reachesare very much easier to fish, for the following reason: at Bibury, andat intervals of about half a mile all the way down, the river is fed bycopious springs of transparent water; the lower down you go, and themore springs that fall into the river, the more glassy does it become.The upper reaches of this river may be described as easy fishing. Thewater, when in good trim, is of a whey colour, though after June itbecomes low and very clear. The flies I have mentioned are the only onesreally necessary, and if the fish will not take them they will probablytake nothing. They are, to sum up:

"Wykeham's Fancy" and the "Grey Quill Gnat" are the only other fliesthat need be mentioned. The former has a great reputation on the river,but we ourselves have used it but little.

The food on the Coln is most abundant, and to this must be attributedthe extraordinary size of the fish as compared with the depth and bulkof water. That one hundred and fifty brace of trout, averaging a poundin weight, are taken with rod and line each year on a stretch of watertwo miles in length, and varying in depth from two to three feet, with afew deep holes, the width of the water being not more than thirty feetfor the most part, is sufficient proof that there is abundance of foodin the river.

Where the water is shallow we have found great advantage accrue byputting in large stones and fir poles, to form ripples and also homesfor the fish. By this means shallow reaches can be made to hold goodfish, and the eddies and ripples make them easy to catch. The stones addto the picturesqueness of the stream, for they soon become coated withmoss, and give the idea in some places of a rocky Scotch burn. Apleasant variety of fishing is thus obtained; for at one time you arethrowing a dry fly on to the still and unruffled surface of the broaderreaches, and a hundred yards lower down you may have to use a wet fly inthe narrower and quicker parts, where the stones cause the water to"boil up" in all directions, and the eddies give a chance to those whoare uninitiated into the mysteries of dry-fly angling.

The large fish prefer sluggish water, but in these artificial ripplesfish may be caught on days on which the stream would be unfishable underordinary circumstances. It would be invidious to make comparisonsbetween the Coln and the Hampshire rivers--the Itchen and theTest,--these are larger rivers, with larger fish, and they require abetter fisherman than those stretches of the Coin that we are dealingwith, although the lower reaches of the latter stream are difficultenough for most people.

Otters used to be considered scarce on the River Coln, but two havelately been trapped in the parish of Bibury. With pike and coarse fishwe are not troubled on the upper reaches, though lower down they existin certain quantities. Of poachers I trust I may say the same. Rumourhas sometimes whispered of nets kept in Bibury and elsewhere, and ofmidnight raids on the neighbouring preserves; but though I have walkeddown the bank on many a summer night, I have never once come uponanything suspicious, not even a night-line. The Gloucestershire nativeis an honest man. He may think, perhaps, that he has nothing to learnand cannot go wrong, but burglaries are practically unknown, andpoaching is not commonly practised.

To sum up, the River Coln affords excellent sport amid surroundingsseldom to be found in these days. The whole country reminds one of thedays of Merrie England, so quaint and rural are the scenes. The housesand cottages are all built of the native stone, which can be obtainedfor the trouble of digging, so there is no danger of modern villas orthe inroads of civilisation spoiling the face of the country. Andmoreover, these country people; being simple in their tastes, have neverendeavoured to improve on the old style of building; the newer cottages,with their pointed gables, closely resemble the old Elizabethan houses.The new stone soon tones down, and every house has a pretty gardenattached to it.

I have just returned from a stroll by the river, with my rod in hand, onthe look-out for a rise. Not a fish was stirring. It is the middle ofMay, and this glorious valley is growing more and more glorious everyday. An evening walk by the stream is delightful now, even though youmay begin to wonder if all the fish have disappeared. The air is full ofjoyful sounds. The cuckoo, the corncrake, and the cock pheasant seem tobe vieing with each other; but, alas! nightingales there are none. As Icome round a bend, up get a mallard and a duck, and beautiful they lookas they swing round me in the dazzling sunlight. A little further on Icome upon a whole brood of nineteen little wild ducks. The old mothersare a good deal tamer now than they were in the shooting season. Many atime have they got up, just out of shot, when I was trying to wile awaythe time during the great frost with a little stalking. A kingfishershoots past; but I have given up trying to find her nest. There is abrood of dabchicks, and, a little further on, another family ofwild duck.

The spring flowers are just now in their flush of pride and glory.Clothing the banks, and reflected everywhere in the blue waters of thestream, are great clusters of marsh marigolds painting the meadows withtheir flaming gold; out of the decayed "stoles" of trees that fell bythe water's edge years and years ago springs the "glowing violet"; hereand there, as one throws a fly towards the opposite bank, a purple glowon the surface of the stream draws the attention to a glorious mass ofviolets on the mossy bank above; myriads of dainty cuckoo flowers,

"With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head, And every flower that sad embroidery wears,"

are likewise to be seen. Farther away from the stream's bank, on theupland lawn and along the hedge towards the downs, the deep purple ofthe hyacinth and orchis, and the perfect blue of the little eyebright orgermander speedwell, are visible even at a distance. In a week the lilacand sweet honeysuckle will fill the air with grateful redolence.

Ah! a may-fly. But I know this is only a false alarm. There are always afew stray ones about at this time; the fly will not be "up" for ten daysat least. When it does come, the stream, so smooth and glassy now, willbe "like a pot a-boiling," as the villagers say. You would not think itpossible that a small brook could contain so many big fish as will showthemselves when the fly is up.

In conclusion, we will quote once more from dear old Charles Kingsley,for what was true fifty years ago is true now--at all events, in thispart of Gloucestershire; and may it ever remain so!

"Come, then, you who want pleasant fishing days without the waste oftime and trouble and expense involved in two hundred miles of railwayjourney, and perhaps fifty more of highland road; come to pleasantcountry inns, where you can always get a good dinner; or, better still,to pleasant country houses, where you can always get good society--torivers which always fish brimful, instead of being, as these mountainones are, very like a turnpike road for three weeks, and then likebottled porter for three days--to streams on which you have strongsouth-west breezes for a week together on a clear fishing water, insteadof having, as on these mountain ones, foul rain spate as long as thewind is south-west, and clearing water when the wind chops up to thenorth,--streams, in a word, where you may kill fish four days out offive from April to October, instead of having, as you will most probablyin the mountain, just one day's sport in the whole of yourmonth's holiday."

[Illustration: A bridge over the Coln. 171.png]

CHAPTER VIII.

WHEN THE MAY-FLY IS UP.

"Just in the dubious point where with the pool Is mix'd the trembling stream, or where it boils Around the stone, or from the hollow'd bank Reverted plays in undulating flow, There throw, nice judging, the delusive fly."

THOMSON'S _Seasons_.

When does the may-fly come, the gorgeous succulent may-fly, that we alllove so well in the quiet valleys where the trout streams wend theirsilent ways?

It comes "of a Sunday," answers the keeper, who would fain see theprejudice against fishing "on the Sabbath" scattered to the four windsof heaven. He thinks it very contrary of the fly that it shouldinvariably come up "strong" on the one day in the week on which thetrout are usually allowed a rest.

"'Tis a most comical job, but it always comes up thickest of a Sunday,"he frequently exclaims. Then, if you press him for further particulars,he grows eloquent on the subject, and tells you as follows: "We alwaysreckons to kill the most fish on 'Durby day.' 'Tis a most singularthing, but the 'Durby day' is always the best."

Now, considering that Derby day is a movable feast, saving that italways comes on a Wednesday, there would appear to be no more logic inthis statement than there is in the one about the fly coming up strongon a Sunday. However, so deep rooted is the theory that the Derby andthe cream of the may-fly fishing are inseparably associated that we havecome to talk of the biggest rise of the season as "the Derby day,"whatever day of the week it may happen to be.

Thus Tom Peregrine, the keeper, when he sees the fly gradually comingup, will say: "I can see how it will be--next Friday will be Durby day.You must 'meet' the fly that day; 'be sure and give it the meeting,'sir. We shall want six rods on the water on Friday." He is sodesperately keen to kill fish that he would sooner have six rods andmoderate sport for each fisherman than three rods and good sport allround. Wonderfully sanguine is this fellow's temperament:

"A man he seems of cheerful yesterdays And confident to-morrows."

It is always "just about a good day for fishing" before you start; andif you have a bad day, he consoles you with an account of anextraordinary day last week, or one you are to have next week. Sometimesit was last season that was so good; "or it will be a splendid seasonnext year," for some reason or other only known to himself.

Three good anglers are quite sufficient for two miles of fishing on thebest of days. Experience has taught us that "too many cooks spoil thebroth" even in the may-fly season.

I shall never forget a most lamentable, though somewhat laughable,occurrence which took place five years ago. Foolishly responding to theentreaties of our enthusiastic friend the keeper, we actually did askfive people to fish one "Durby day." As luck would have it they allcame; but unfortunately a neighbouring squire, who owns part of thewater, but who seldom turns up to fish, also chose that day, and withhim came his son. Seven was bad enough in all conscience, but imagine myfeelings when a waggonette drove up, full of _undergraduates fromOxford_: my brother, who was one of the undergraduates, had brought themdown on the chance, and without any warning. Of course they all wantedto fish, though for the most part they were quite innocent of the art ofthrowing a fly. Result: ten or a dozen fisherman, all in each other'sway; every rising fish in the brook frightened out of its wits; and verylittle sport. The total catch for the day was only thirty trout, orexactly what three rods ought to have caught.

These were the sort of remarks one had to put up with: "I say, oldchap, there's a d----d fellow in a mackintosh suit up stream; he'sbagged my water"; or, "Who is that idiot who has been flogging away allthe afternoon in one place? Does he think he's beating carpets, or is hean escaped lunatic from Hanwell?"

The whole thing was too absurd; it was like a fishing competition on theThames at Twickenham.

Since this never-to-be-forgotten day I have come to the conclusion thatto have too few anglers is better than too many; also, alas! that it isquite useless to ask your friends to come unless they are accomplishedfishermen. It takes years of practice to learn the art of catchingsouth-country trout in these days, when every fish knows as well as wedo the difference between the real fly and the artificial. One might aswell ask a lot of schoolboys to a big "shoot," as issue indiscriminateinvitations to fish.

It is a prochronism to talk of the _May_-fly; for, as a matter of fact,the first ten days of _June_ usually constitute the may-fly season. Oflate years the rise has been earlier and more scanty than of yore. Thereare always several days, however, during the rise when all the biggestfish in the brook come out from their homes beneath the willows, take upa favourable place in mid stream, and quietly suck down fly after flyuntil they are absolutely stuffed. To have fished on one of these daysin any well-stocked south-country brook is something to look back uponfor many a long day. In a reach of water not exceeding one hundred yardsin length there will be fish enough to occupy you throughout the day.You may catch seven or eight brace of trout, none of which are under apound in weight, where you did not believe any large ones existed. Thefact is, the larger fish of a trout stream are more like rats in theirhabits than anything else; they stow themselves away in holes in thebank and all sorts of inconceivable places, and are as invisible by dayas the otter itself.

That man derives the greatest enjoyment from this annual carnival amongthe trout who has been tied to London all through May, sweltering in astuffy office and longing for the country. Though his sympathies arebound up heart and soul in country pursuits, he has elected to "livelaborious days" in the busy haunts of men. He does it, though he hatesit; for he has sufficient insight to know that self-denial in some formor other is the inevitable destiny of mortal man: sooner or later it hasto be undergone by all, whether we like it or not

"Quanto quisque sibi plura negaverit Ab dis plura feret"

Horace never wrote anything truer than that, though we are not tosuppose that the second line will necessarily come true in this life.

We will imagine that our friend is a briefless barrister, but a fine,all-round sportsman; a crack batsman, perhaps, at Eton and Oxford, orone of whom it might be said:

"Give me the man to whom nought comes amiss, One horse or another, that country or this-- Who through falls and bad starts undauntedly still Rides up to the motto, 'Be with them I will.'"

There may be good sportsmen enough enjoying life throughout the countryvillages of Merrie England, but in my humble opinion the _best_sportsmen must be sought in stifling offices in London, or serving"their country and their Queen" under the burning sun of a far country,or maybe in the reeking atmosphere of the East End, or as missionariesin that howling wilderness the inhospitable land of "theheathen Chinee."

Sitting in his dusty chambers, poring over grimy books and legalmanuscripts, our "briefless" friend receives a telegram which he hasbeen expecting rather anxiously the last few days. As brief as he is"briefless," it brings a flush to his cheek which has not been seenthere since that great run with the hounds last Christmas holidays. "Thefly is up; come at once." These are the magic words; and no time is lostin responding to the invitation, for, as prearranged, he is to start forGloucestershire directly the wire arrives.

There is no need to rush off to Mr. Farlow and buy up his stock ofmay-flies; for though he does not tie his own flies, our angling friendhas a goodly stock of them neatly arranged in rows of cork inside ablack tin box; and, depend upon it, they are the _right_ ones.

Many a fisherman goes through a lifetime without getting the right fliesfor the water on which he angles. It is ten to one that those in theshops are too light, both in the body and the wing; the may-fliesusually sold are likewise much too big. About half life-size is quitebig enough for the artificial fly, and as a general rule they cannot betoo _dark_.

Some years ago we caught a live fly, and took it up to London for theshopman to copy. "At last," we said to ourselves, "we have got the rightthing." But not a bit of it. The first cast on to the water showed usthat the fly was utterly wrong. It was far too light. The fact is, theinsect itself appears very much darker on the water than it does in theair. But the artificial fly shows ten times lighter as it floats on thestream than it does in the shop window.

Dark mottled grey for your wings, and a brown hackle, with a dark ratherthan a straw-coloured body, is the kind of fly we find most killing onthe upper Coln. Of course it may be different on other streams, but Isuspect there is a tendency to use too light a fly everywhere, saveamong those who have learnt by experience how to catch trout. As SirHerbert Maxwell has proved by experiment, trout have no perception ofcolour except so far as the fly is light or dark. He found dark blue andred flies just as killing as the ordinary may-fly.

For the dry-fly fisherman equipment is half the battle. Show me the manwho catches fish; ten to one his rod is well balanced and strong, hisline heavy, though tapered, and his gut well selected and stained. Thefly-book stamps the fisherman even more truly than the topboot stampsthe fox-hunter. Nor does the accomplished expert with the dry flydisdain with fat of deer to grease his line, nor with paraffin to dresshis fly and make it float. But he keeps the paraffin in a leather caseby itself, so that his coat may not remain redolent for months. Fromtop to toe he is a fisherman. His boots are thick, even though he doesnot require waders; on his knees are leather pads to ward offrheumatism; whilst on his head is a sober-coloured cap--not a whitestraw hat flashing in the sunlight, and scaring the timid troutto death.

Thus appears our sportsman of the Inner Temple not twelve hours after wesaw him stewing in his London chambers. What a metamorphosis is this!Just as the may-fly, after two years of confinement as a wretched grubin the muddy bed of the stream, throws off its shackles, gives its wingsa shake, and soars into the glorious June atmosphere, happy to be free,so does the poor caged bird rejoice, after grubbing for an indefiniteperiod in a cramped cell, to leave darkness and dirt and gloom (thoughnot, like the may-fly, for ever), and flee away on wings the mightysteam provides until he finds himself once again in the fresh greenfields he loves so well. And truly he gets his reward. He has come intoa new world--rather, I should say, a paradise; for he comes when meadowsare green and trees are at their prime. Though the glory of the lilachas passed away, the buttercup still gilds the landscape; barley fieldsare bright with yellow charlock, and the soft, subdued glow of sainfoingives colour to the breezy uplands as of acres of pink carnations. Onone side a vast sheet of saffron, on the other a lake of rubies, ripplesin the passing breeze, or breaks into rolling waves of light and shadeas the fleecy clouds sweep across azure skies. He comes when roses, pinkand white and red, are just beginning to hang their dainty heads inmodest beauty on every cottage wall or cluster round the ancient porch;when from every lattice window in the hamlet (I wish I could say every_open_ window) rows of red geraniums peep from their brown pots ofterra-cotta, brightening the street without, and filling the cosy roomswith grateful, unaccustomed fragrance; when the scent of the sweet,short-lived honeysuckle pervades the atmosphere, and the faces of thehandsome peasants are bronzed as those of dusky dwellers underItalian skies.

No daintie flowre or herbe that grows on ground; No arborett with painted blossoms drest, And smelling sweete, but there it might be found, To bud out faire, and throwe her sweete smels al around.

E. SPENSER.

What a pleasant country is this in which to spend a holiday! How whiteare the limestone roads! how fresh and invigorating is the upland air!The old manor house is deserted, its occupants having gone to London.But a couple of bachelors can be happy in an empty house, withoutservants and modern luxuries, as long as the may-fly lasts. It ispleasant to feel that you can dine at any hour you please, and wear whatyou please. The good lady who cooks for you is merely the wife of one ofthe shepherds; but her cooking is fit for a king! What dinner could bebetter than a trout fresh from the brook, a leg of lamb from the farm,and a gooseberry tart from the kitchen garden? For vegetables you mayhave asparagus--of such excellence that you scarcely know which end tobegin eating--and new potatoes.

For my part, I would sooner a thousand times live on homely fare in thecountry than be condemned to wade through long courses at London dinnerparties, or, worse still, pay fabulous prices at "Willis's Rooms," the"Berkeley," or at White's Club.

What a comfort, too, to be without housemaids to tidy up your papers inthe smoking-room and shut your windows in the evening! How healthful tosleep in a room in which the windows have been wide open night and dayfor months past!

Sport is usually to be depended upon in the may-fly time, as long as youare not late for the rise. Of late years the fly has "come up" so earlyand in such limited quantities that but few fishermen were on thewater in time.

We are apt to grumble, declaring that the whole river has gone to thebad; that the fish are smaller and fewer in numbers than of yore,--butis this borne out by facts? The year 1896 was no doubt rather a failureas regards the may-fly; but as I glance over the pages of the game-bookin which I record as far as possible every fish that is killed, I cannothelp thinking that sport has been very wonderful, take it all round,during six out of seven seasons.

It is a lovely day during the last week in May. There has been no rainfor more than a fortnight; the wind is north-east, and the sun shinesbrightly,--yet we walk down to the River Coln, anticinating a good day'ssport among the trout: for, during the may-fly season, no matter howunpropitious the weather may appear, sport is more of a certainty onthis stream than at any other time of year. Early in the season droughtdoes not appear to have any effect on the springs; we might get no rainfrom the middle of April until half-way through June, and yet the waterwill keep up and remain a good colour all the time. But after June is"out," down goes the water, lower and lower every week; no amount ofrain will then make any perceptible increase to the volume of thestream, and not until the nights begin to lengthen out and the autumnalgales have done their work will the water rise again to its normalheight. If you ask Tom Peregrine why these things are so, he will onlytell you that after a few gales the "springs be _frum_." The word"frum," the derivation of which is, Anglo-Saxon, "fram," or "from" =strong, flourishing, is the local expression for the bursting ofthe springs.

Our friend Tom Peregrine is full of these quaint expressions. When hesees a covey of partridges dusting themselves in the roads, he will tellyou they are "bathering." A dog hunting through a wood is always said tobe "breveting." "I don't like that dog of So-and-so's, he do 'brevet'so," is a favourite saying. The ground on a frosty morning "scrumps" or"feels scrumpety," as you walk across the fields; and the partridgeswhen wild, are "teert." All these phrases are very happy, the sound ofthe words illustrating exactly the idea they are intended to convey.Besides ordinary Gloucestershire expressions, the keeper has a largevariety that he has invented for himself.

When the river comes down clear, it is invariably described as likelooking into a gin bottle, or "as clear as gin." A trout rising boldlyat a fly is said to "'quap' up," or "boil up," or even "come at it likea dog." The word "mess" is used to imply disgust of any sort: "I see oneboil up just above that mess of weed"; or, if you get a bit of weed onthe hook, he will exclaim, "Bother! that mess of weed has put him down."Sometimes he remarks, "Tis these dreadful frostis that spileseverything. 'Tis enough to sterve anybody." When he sees a bad fishermanat work, he nods his head woefully and exclaims, "He might as well throwhis 'at in!" Then again, if he is anxious that you should catch aparticular trout, which cannot be persuaded to rise, he always says,"Terrify him, sir; keep on terrifying of him." This does not mean thatyou are to frighten the fish; on the contrary, he is urging you to stickto him till he gets tired of being harassed, and succumbs to temptation.All these quaint expressions make this sort of folk very amusingcompanions for a day's fishing.

It is eleven o'clock; let us walk down stream until we come to a bend inthe river where the north-east wind is less unfavourable than it is inmost parts. There is a short stretch of two hundred yards, where, as wefish up stream, the breeze will be almost at our backs, and there arefish enough to occupy us for an hour or so; afterwards, we shall have to"cut the wind" as best we can.

As we pass down stream the pale olive duns are hatching out in fairnumbers, and a few fish are already on the move. What lovely, delicatethings are these duns! and how "beautifully and wonderfully are theymade"! If you catch one you will see that it is as delicate andtransparent as it can possibly be. Not even the may-fly can compare withthe dun. And what rare food for trout they supply! For more than sixweeks, from April 1st, they hatch out by thousands every sunny day. Themay-fly may be a total failure, but week after week in the early springyou may go down to the riverside with but one sort of fly, and if thereare fish to be caught at all, the pale-winged olive dun will catch them;and in spite of the fact that there are a few may-flies on the water, itis with the little duns that we intend to start our fishing to-day. Thetrout have not yet got thoroughly accustomed to the green-drake, and the"Durby day" will not be here for a week. It is far better to leave them"to get reconciled" to the new fly (as the keeper would put it); theywill "quap" up all the better in a few days if allowed, in anglingphraseology, "to get well on to the fly."

On arriving at the spot at which we intend commencing operations, it isevident that the rise has begun. Happily, everything was in readiness.Our tapered gut cast has been wetted, and a tiny-eyed fly is at the end.The gut nearest the hook is as fine as gut can possibly be. Anythingthicker would be detected, for a spring joins the river at this pointand makes the water rather clear. Higher up we need not be soparticular. There is a fish rising fifteen yards above us; so, crouchinglow and keeping back from the bank, we begin casting. A leatherkneecap, borrowed from the harness-room, is strapped on to the knee, andis a good precaution against rheumatism. The first cast is two feetshort of the rise, but with the next we hook a trout. He makes atremendous rush, and runs the reel merrily. We manage to keep him out ofthe weeds and land him--a silvery "Loch Leven," about three-quarters ofa pound, and in excellent condition. Only two years ago he was put intothe stream with five hundred others as a yearling. The next two risingfish are too much for us, and we bungle them. One sees the line, owingto our throwing too far above him, and the other is frightened out ofhis life by a bit of weed or grass which gets hitched on to the barb ofthe hook, and lands bang on to his nose. These accidents will happen, sowe do not swear, but pass on up stream, and soon a great brown tailappears for a second just above some rushes on the other side. Kneelingdown again, we manage, after a few casts--luckily short of our fish--todrop the fly a foot above him. Down it sails, not "cocking" as nicely ascould be wished, but in an exact line for his nose. There is a slightdimple, and we have got him. For two or three minutes we are at themercy of our fish, for we dare not check him--the gut is too fine. But,lacking condition, he soon tires, and is landed. He is over a pound anda half, and rather lanky; but kill him we must, for by the size of hishead we can see that he is an old fish, and as bad as a pike for eatingfry. Two half-pounders are now landed in rapid succession, and returnedto the water. Then we hook a veritable monster; but, alas! he makes aterrific rush down stream, and the gut breaks in the weeds. Of course heis put down as the biggest fish ever hooked in the water. As a matter offact, two pounds would probably "see him." Putting on another olive dun,we are soon playing a handsome bright fish of a pound, with thickshoulders and a small head. And a lovely sight he is when we get him outof the water and knock him on the head.

We now come to a place where some big stones have been placed to makeripples and eddies, and the stream is more rapid. Glad of the chance ofa rest from the effort of fishing "dry," which is tiring to the wristand back, we get closer to the bank, and flog away for five minuteswithout success. Suddenly we hear a voice behind, and, looking round,see our mysterious keeper, who is always turning up unexpectedly,without one's being able to tell where he has sprung from. "The fish beall alive above the washpool. I never see such a sight in all my life!"he breathlessly exclaims.

"All right," we reply; "we'll be up there directly. But let's first ofall try for the big one that lies just above that stone."

"That's the big fish," we reply, vigorously flogging the air to dry thefly; for when there is a big fish about, one always gives him as neatlya "cocked" fly as is possible.

"_Must_ have him! Bang over him!" exclaims Tom Peregrine excitedly.

But there is no response from the fish.

"Keep _terrifying_ of him, keep _terrifying_ of him," whispers Tom;"he's bound to make a mistake sooner or later." So we try again, and atthe same moment that the fly floats down over the monster's nose hemoves a foot to the right and takes a live may-fly with a big roll anda flop.

"Well, I never! Try him with a may-fly, sir," says Peregrine.

Thinking this advice sound, we hastily put on the first may-fly of theseason; and no sooner have we made our cast than, as Rudyard Kiplingonce said to the writer, there is a boil in the water "like the launchof a young yacht," a tremendous swirl, and we are fast into a famoustrout. Directly he feels the insulting sting of the hook he rushes downstream at a terrific rate, so that the line, instead of being taut,dangles loosely on the water. We gather the line through the rings inbreathless haste--there is no time to reel up--and once more get a tightstrain on him. Fortunately there are no weeds here; the current is toorapid for them. Twice he jumps clean out of the water, his broad,silvery sides flashing in the sunlight. At length, after a five minutes'fight, during which our companion never stops talking, we land the bestfish we have caught for four years. Nearly three pounds, he is as "fatas butter," as bright as a new shilling, with the pinkest of pink spotsalong his sides, and his broad back is mottled green. The head is small,indicating that he is not a "cannibal," but a real, good-conditioned,pink-fleshed trout. And it is rare in May to catch a big fish that hasgrown into condition.

We have now four trout in the basket. "A pretty dish of fish," asPeregrine ejaculates several times as we walk up stream towards thewashpool. For thirty years he has been about this water, and has seenthousands of fish caught, yet he is as keen to-day as a boy with hisfirst trout. As we pass through a wood we question him as to a smallstone hut, which appeared to have fallen out of repair.

"Oh!" he replied, "that was built in the time of the Romans"; and thenhe went on to tell us how a _great_ battle was fought in the wood, andhow, about twenty years ago, they had found "a _great_ skeleton of aman, nearly seven feet long"--a sure proof, he added, that the Romanshad fought here.

As a matter of fact, there are several Roman villas in theneighbourhood, and there was also fighting hereabouts in the Civil Wars.But half the country folk look upon everything that happened more than ahundred years ago as having taken place in the time of the Romans; andOliver Cromwell is to them as mythical a personage and belonging to anequally remote antiquity as Julius Caesar. The Welsh people are just thesame. The other day we were shown a huge pair of rusty scissors whilststaying in Breconshire. The man who found them took them to the "bighouse" for the squire to keep as a curiosity, for, "no doubt," he said,"they once belonged to _some great king_"!

To our disgust, on reaching the upper water we found it as thick aspea-soup. Sheep-washing had been going on a mile or so above us. Neverhaving had any sport under these conditions in past times, we had quitedecided to give up fishing for the day; but Tom Peregrine, who is eversanguine, swore he saw a fish rise. To our astonishment, on putting thefly over the spot, we hooked and landed a large trout Proceeding upstream, two more were quickly basketed. When the water comes down asthick as the Thames at London Bridge, after sheep washing, the big troutare often attracted out of their holes by the insects washed out of thewool; but they will seldom rise freely to the artificial fly on suchoccasions. To-day, oddly enough, they take any fly they can see in thethick water, and with a "coch-y-bondu" substituted for the may-fly, asbeing more easily seen in the discoloured water, any number of fish wereto be caught. But there is little merit and, consequently, littlesatisfaction in pulling out big trout under these conditions, so that,having got seven fish, weighing nine pounds, in the basket, we aresatisfied.

As a rule, it is only in the may-fly season that the biggest fish risefreely; an average weight of one pound per fish is usually consideredfirst-rate in the Coln. On this day, however, although the may-fly wasnot yet properly up, the big fish, which generally feed at night, hadbeen brought on the rise by the sheep-washing.

All the way home we are regaled with impossible stories of big fishtaken in these waters, one of which, the keeper says, weighed fivepounds, "all but a penny piece." As a matter of fact, this fish wastaken out of a large spring close to the river; and it is very rarelythat a three-pounder is caught in the Coln above Bibury, whilst anythingover that weight is not caught once in a month of Sundays. Last January,however, a dead trout, weighing three pounds eight ounces, was found atBibury Mill, and a few others about the same size have been taken duringrecent years. At Fairford, where the stream is bigger, a five-pounderwas taken during the last may-fly.

We are pleased to find that our friend from London, who has been fishingthe same water, has done splendidly; he has killed six brace of goodtrout, besides returning a large number to the water. With a glow ofsatisfaction he

"Tells from what pool the noblest had been dragg'd; And where the very monarch of the brook, After long struggle, had escaped at last."

WORDSWORTH.

We laid our combined bag on the cool stone floor in the game larder;

"And verily the silent creatures made A splendid sight, together thus exposed; Dead, but not sullied or deformed by death, That seem'd to pity what he could not spare."

WORDSWORTH.

But the killing of trout is only a small part of the pleasure of beinghere when the may-fly is up. How pleasant to live almost entirely in theopen air! after the day's fishing is over to rest awhile in the coolmanor house hard by the stream, watching from the window of theoak-panelled little room the wonders of creation in the garden throughwhich the river flows! Now, from the recesses of the overhanging boughson the tiny island opposite, a moorhen swims forth, cackling and peckingat the water as she goes. She is followed by five little balls of blackfur--her red-beaked progeny; they are fairly revelling in the eveningsunlight, diving, playing with each other, and thoroughly enjoying life.

Up on the bough of the old fir, bearing its heavy mantle of ivy frombase to topmost twig, and not twenty yards from the window, a thrushsits and sings. You must watch him carefully ere you assure yourselfthat those sweet, trilling notes of peerless music come from that tinythroat. A rare lesson in voice production he will teach you. Deepbreathing, headnotes clear as a bell and effortless, as only three orfour singers in Europe can produce them, without the slightest sense ofstrain or throatiness--such are the songs of our most gifted denizens ofthe woods.

What a wondrous amount of life is visible on an evening such as this!Among the fast-growing nettles beyond the brook scores of rabbits arerunning to and fro, some sitting up on their haunches with ears pricked,some gamboling round the lichened trunk of the weeping ash tree.

Out of the water may-flies are rising and soaring upwards to circleround the topmost branches of the firs. Looking upwards, you may seehundreds of them dancing in unalloyed delight, enjoying their briefexistence in this beautiful world.

Birds of many kinds, swallows and swifts, sparrows, fly-catchers,blackbirds, robins and wrens, all and sundry are busy chasing the poorgreen-drakes. As soon as the flies emerge from their husks and hoverabove the surface of the stream, many of them are snapped up. But thetrout have "gone down,"--they are fairly gorged for the day; they willnot trouble the fly any more to-night.

And then those glorious bicycle rides in the long summer evenings, when,scarcely had the sun gone down beyond the ridge of rolling uplands thanthe moon, almost at the full, and gorgeously serene, cast her soft,mysterious light upon a silent world. One such night two anglers,gliding softly through the ancient village of Bibury, dismounted fromtheir machines and stood on the bridge which spans the River Coln. Belowthem the peaceful waters flowed silently onwards with all the smoothnessof oil, save that ever and anon rays of silvery moonlight fell instreaks of radiant whiteness upon its glassy surface.

From beneath the bridge comes the sound of busy waters, a sound, as isoften the case with running water, that you do not hear unless youlisten for it carefully. Close by, too, at the famous spring, crystalwaters are welling forth from the rock, pure and stainless as they werea thousand years ago. All else is silent in the village. The sky isflecked by myriads of tiny cloudlets, all separate from each other, andmostly of one shape and size; but just below the brilliant orb, whichfloats serene and proud above the line of mackerel sky, fantastic peaksof clouds, like far-off snow-capped heights of rugged Alps, arepointing upwards.

Suddenly there comes a change. A fairy circle of prismatic colour isgathering round the moon, beautifying the scene a thousandfold; an innergirdle of hazy emerald hue immediately surrounds the lurid orb, which isnow seen as "in a glass darkly"; whilst encircling all is a narrow rimof red light, like the rosy hues of the setting sun that have scarcelydied away in the west. The beauty of this lunar rainbow is enhanced bythe framework of shapely ash trees through whose branches it is seen.

Along the river bank, nestling under the hanging wood, are rows of oldstone cottages, with gables warped a little on one side. One lightshines forth from the lattice window of the ancient mill; but in thecool thick-walled houses the honest peasants are slumbering in deep,peaceful sleep.

"Ne'er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep. The river glideth at his own sweet will: Dear God, the very houses seem asleep."

WORDSWORTH.

We are in the very heart of England. What a contrast to London at night,where many a poor fellow must be tossing restlessly in the stiflingatmosphere!

As we return towards the old manor house the nightjar, or goatsucker,is droning loudly, and a nightingale--actually a nightingale!--issinging in the copse. These birds seldom visit us in the Cotswolds. Inthe deserted garden the scent of fresh-mown hay is filling the air, and

"The moping owl doth to the moon complain Of such as wander near her secret bower."

As we go we pluck some sprigs of fragrant honeysuckle and carry themindoors. And so to bed, passing on the broad oak staircase the weirdpicture of the man who built this rambling old house more than threehundred years ago.

There is a plain everyday phenomenon connected with pictures, and moreespecially photographs, which must have been noticed time after time bythousands of people; yet I never heard it mentioned in conversation orsaw it in print. I allude to the extraordinary sympathy the features ofa portrait are capable of assuming towards the expression of countenanceof the man who is looking at it. There is something at times almostuncanny in it. Stand opposite a photograph of a friend when you arefeeling sad, and the picture is sad. Laugh, and the mouth of your friendseems to curl into a smile, and his eyes twinkle merrily. Relapse intogloom and despondency, and the smile dies away from the picture. Oftenin youth, when about to carry out some design or other, I used to glanceat my late father's portrait, and never failed to notice a look ofapproval or condemnation on the face which left its mark on the memoryfor a considerable time. The countenance of the grim old gentleman inthe portrait on the stairs ("AETATIS SUAE 92. 1614 A.D.") wore adistinct air of satisfaction to-night as I passed by on my way to bed;he always looks pleased after there has been a good day with the hounds,and likewise in the summer when the may-fly is up.

[Illustration: Burford Priory. 194.png]

CHAPTER IX.

BURFORD, A COTSWOLD TOWN.

Burford and Cirencester are two typical Cotswold towns; and perhaps thefirst-named is the most characteristic, as it is also the most remoteand old-world of all places in this part of England. It was on a lovelyday in June that we resolved to go and explore the ancient priory andglorious church of old Burford. A very slow train sets you down atBampton, commonly called Bampton-in-the-Bush, though the forest whichgave rise to the name has long since given place to open fields.

There are many other curious names of this type in Gloucestershire andthe adjoining counties. Villages of the same name are oftendistinguished from each other by these quaint descriptions of theirvarious situations. Thus:

Shipston-on-Stour and Shipton-under-Whichwood. Hinton-on-the-Green and Hinton-in-the-Hedges. Aston-under-Hill and Aston-under-Edge.

It may be noted in passing that the derivation of the word"Moreton-in-the-Marsh" has ever been the subject of much controversy.But the fact that the place is on the ancient trackway from Cirencesterto the north, and also that four counties meet here, is sufficientreason for assigning Morton-hen-Mearc (=) "the place on the moor by theold boundary" as the probable meaning of the name.

We were fortunate enough to secure an outside seat on the rickety old"bus" which plies between Bampton and Burford, and were soon slowlytraversing the white limestone road, stopping every now and then to setdown a passenger or deposit a parcel at some clean-looking, stone-facedcottage in the straggling old villages.

It was indeed a glorious morning for an expedition into the Cotswolds.The six weeks' drought had just given place to cool, showery weather. Alight wind from the west breathed the fragrance of countless wildflowers and sweet may blossom from the leafy hedges, and the scent ofroses and honeysuckle was wafted from every cottage garden. After amonth spent amid the languid air and depressing surroundings of London,one felt glad at heart to experience once again the grand, pure air andrural scenery of the Cotswold Hills.

What strikes one so forcibly about this part of England, after a sojournin some smoky town, is its extraordinary cleanliness.

There is no such thing as _dirt_ in a limestone country. The very mudoff the roads in rainy weather is not dirt at all, sticky though itundoubtedly is. It consists almost entirely of lime, which, though itburns all the varnish off your carriage if allowed to remain on it for afew days, has nothing repulsive about its nature, like ordinary mud.

How pleasant, too, is the contrast between the quiet, peaceful countrylife and the restless din and never-ceasing commotion of the "busyhaunts of men"! As we pass along through villages gay with flowers, weconverse freely with the driver of the 'bus, chiefly about fishing. Thegreat question which every one asks in this part of the world in thefirst week in June is whether the may-fly is up. The lovely green-drakegenerally appears on the Windrush about this time, and then for ten daysnobody thinks or talks about anything else. Who that has ever witnesseda real may-fly "rise" on a chalk or limestone stream will deny that itis one of the most beautiful and interesting sights in all creation?Myriads of olive-coloured, transparent insects, almost as large asbutterflies, rising out of the water, and floating on wings as light asgossamer, only to live but one short day; great trout, flopping androlling in all directions, forgetful of all the wiles of which they aregenerally capable; and then, when the evening sun is declining, thefemale fly may be seen hovering over the water, and dropping her eggstime after time, until, having accomplished the only purpose for whichshe has existed in the winged state, she falls lifeless into the stream.But though these lovely insects live but twenty-four hours, and duringthat short period undergo a transformation from the _sub-imago_ to the_imago_ state, they exist as larvae in the bed of the river for quitetwo years from the time the eggs are dropped. The season of 1896 was oneof the worst ever known on some may-fly rivers; probably the great frosttwo winters back was the cause of failure. The intense cold is supposedto have killed the larvae.

The Windrush trout are very large indeed; a five-pound fish is not atall uncommon. The driver of the 'bus talked of monsters of eight poundshaving been taken near Burford, but we took this _cum grano salis_.

After a five-mile drive we suddenly see the picturesque old town belowus. Like most of the villages of the country, it lies in one of thenarrow valleys which intersect the hills, so that you do not get a viewof the houses until you arrive at the edge of the depression in whichthey are built.

Having paid the modest shilling which represents the fare for the fivemiles, we start off for the priory. There was no difficulty in findingour way to it. In all the Cotswold villages and small towns the "bighouse" stands out conspicuously among the old cottages and barns andfarmhouses, half hidden as it is by the dense foliage of giant elms andbeeches and chestnuts and ash; nor is Burford Priory an exception to therule, though its grounds are guarded by a wall of immense height on oneside. And then once more we get the view we have seen so often onCotswold; yet it never palls upon the senses, but thrills us with itsown mysterious charm. Who can ever get tired of the picture presented bya gabled, mediaeval house set in a framework of stately trees, amidwhose leafy branches the rooks are cawing and chattering round theirancestral nests, whilst down below the fertilising stream silentlyfulfils its never-ceasing task, flowing onwards everlastingly, caringnothing for the vicissitudes of our transitory life and the hopes andfears that sway the hearts of successive generations of men?

There the old house stands "silent in the shade"; there are the "nurserywindows," but the "children's voices" no longer break the silence of thestill summer day. Everywhere--in the hall, in the smoking-room, wherethe empty gun-cases still hang, and in "my lady's bower,"

"Sorrow and silence and sadness Are hanging over all."

Until we arrived within a few yards of the front door we had almostforgotten that the place was a ruin; for though the house is but anempty shell, almost as hollow as a skull, the outer walls areabsolutely complete and undamaged. At one end is the beautiful oldchapel, built by "Speaker" Lenthall in the time of the Commonwealth.There is an air of sanctity about this lovely white freestone templewhich no amount of neglect can eradicate. The roof, of fine stucco work,has fallen in; the elder shrubs grow freely through the crevices in thebroken pavement under foot,--and yet you feel bound to remove your hatas you enter, for "you are standing on holy ground."

"EXUE CALCEOS, NAM TERRA EST SANCTA."

Over the entrance stands boldly forth this solemn inscription, whilstangels, wonderfully carved in white stone, watch and guard the sacredprecincts. At the north end of the chapel stands intact the altar, and,strangely enough, the most perfectly preserved remnants of the wholebuilding are two white stone tablets plainly setting forth the TenCommandments. The sun, as we stood there, was pouring its rays throughthe graceful mullioned windows, lighting up the delicate carving,--workthat is rendered more beautiful than ever by the "tender grace of a daythat is dead,"--whilst outside in the deserted garden the birds weresinging sweetly. The scene was sadly impressive; one felt as one doeswhen standing by the grave of some old friend. As we passed out of thechapel we could not help reflecting on the hard-heartedness of men fiftyyears ago, who could allow this consecrated place, beautiful and fairas it still is, to fall gradually to the ground, nor attempt to putforth a helping hand to save it ere it crumbles into dust. Howungrateful it seems to those whose labour and hard, self-sacrificingtoil erected it two hundred and fifty years ago! Those men of whomRuskin wrote: "All else for which the builders sacrificed has passedaway; all their living interests and aims and achievements. We know notfor what they laboured, and we see no evidence of their reward. Victory,wealth, authority, happiness, all have departed, though bought by many abitter sacrifice."

It should be mentioned, however, that Mr. R. Hurst is at the presenttime engaged in a laudable endeavour to restore this chapel to itsoriginal state. Inside the house the most noteworthy feature of interestis a remarkably fine ornamental ceiling. Good judges inform us that theballroom ceiling at Burford Priory is one of the finest examples of oldwork of the kind anywhere to be seen. The room itself is a very largeand well-proportioned one; the oak panels, which completely cover thewalls, still bear the marks of the famous portraits that once adornedthem. Charles I. and Henry Prince of Wales, by Cornelius Jansen; QueenHenrietta Maria, by Vandyke; Sir Thomas More and his family, by Holbein;Speaker Lenthall, the former owner of the house; and many other finepictures hung here in former times. The staircase is a fine broadone, of oak.

But now let us leave the inside of the house, which _ought_ to be sobeautiful and bright, and _is_ so desolate and bare, for it is of nogreat age, and let us call to mind the picture which Waller painted,engravings of which used to adorn so many Oxford rooms: "The EmptySaddle." For, standing in the neglected garden we may see the veryterrace and the angle of the house which were drawn so beautifully byhim. Then, as we stroll through the deserted grounds towards thepeaceful Windrush, where the great trout are still sucking down the poorshort-lived may-flies, let us try to recollect what manner of men usedto walk in these peaceful gardens in the old, stirring times.

Little or nothing is known of the monastery which doubtless existedsomewhere hereabouts prior to the dissolution in Henry VIII.'s reign.

Up to the Conquest the manor of Burford was held by Saxon noblemen. Itis mentioned in Doomsday Book as belonging to Earl Aubrey; but the firstnotable man who held it was Hugh le Despencer. This man was one ofEdward II.'s favourites, and was ultimately hung, by the queen'scommand, at the same time that Edward was committed to KenilworthCastle. Burford remained with his descendants till the reign of HenryV., when it passed by marriage to a still more notable man, in theperson of Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick, the "kingmaker." Space doesnot allow us to romance on the part that this great warrior played inthe history of those times; Lord Lytton has done that for us in hissplendid book, "The Last of the Barons." Suffice it to say that he leftan undying fame to future generations, and fell in the Wars of the Roseswhen fighting at the battle of Barnet against the very man he had set onthe throne. The almshouses he built for Burford are still to be seenhard by the grand old church.

"For who lived king, but I could dig his grave? And who durst smile, when Warwick bent his brow? Lo, now my glory's smear'd in dust and blood! My parks, my walks, my manors that I had, Even now forsake me; and of all my lands, Is nothing left me, but my body's length!"

3 _King Henry VI_., V. ii.

In the reign of Henry VIII. this manor, having lapsed to the Crown, wasgranted to Edmund Harman, the royal surgeon. Then in later days Sir JohnFortescue, Chancellor of the Exchequer to Queen Elizabeth, got hold ofit, and eventually sold it to Sir Lawrence Tanfield, a great judge inthose times. The latter was buried "at twelve o'clock in the Night" inthe church of Burford; and there is a very handsome aisle there and animmense monument to his memory. The Tanfield monument, though somewhatugly and grotesque, is a wonderful example of alabaster work. The costof erecting it and the labour bestowed must have been immense. It wasthis knight who built the great house of which the present ruins formpart, and the date would probably be about 1600. But in 1808 nearly halfthe original building is supposed to have been pulled down, and what wasallowed to remain, with the exception of the chapel, has been verymuch altered.

It was in the time of Lucius Carey's (second Lord Falkland) ownership ofthis manor that the place was in the zenith of its fame. Thisaccomplished man, whose father had married Chief Justice Tanfield'sonly daughter, succeeded his grandfather in the year 1625. He gatheredtogether, either here or at Great Tew, a few miles away, half theliterary celebrities of the day. Ben Jonson, Cowley, and Chillingworthall visited Falkland from time to time. Lucius Carey afterwards becamethe ill-fated King Charles's Secretary of State, an office which heconscientiously filled until his untimely death.

Falkland left little literary work behind him of any mark, yet of noother man of those times may it be said that so great a reputation forability and character has been handed down to us. Novelists and authorsdelight in dwelling on his good qualities. Even in this jubilee year of1897 the author of "Sir Kenelm Digby" has written a book about theFalklands. Whyte Melville, too, made him the hero of one of his novels,describing him as a man in whose outward appearance there were noindications of the intellectual superiority he enjoyed over his fellowmen. Indeed, as with Arthur Hallam in our own times, so it was withFalkland in the mediaeval age. Neither left behind them any work oftheir own by which future generations could realise their abilities andalmost godlike charm, yet each has earned a kind of immortality throughbeing honoured and sung by the pens of the greatest writers of hisrespective age.

That great, though somewhat bombastic, historian, Lord Clarendon, tellsus that Falkland was "a person of such prodigious parts of learning andknowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversation, ofso flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to mankind, and of thatprimitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no otherbrand upon this odious and accursed Civil War than that single loss, itmust be most infamous and execrable to all posterity." From the sameauthority we learn that although he was ever anxious for peace, yet hewas the bravest of the brave. At the battle of Newbury he put himself inthe first rank of Lord Byron's regiment, when he met his end through amusket shot. "Thus," says Clarendon, "fell that incomparable young man,in the four-and-thirtieth year of his age, having so much despatched thetrue business of life that the eldest rarely attain to that immenseknowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with moreinnocency."

When it is remembered that Falkland was not a soldier at all, but alearned scholar, whose natural proclivities were literature and the artsof peace, his self-sacrifice and bravery cannot fail to call forthadmiration for the man, and we cannot but regret his untimely end.

King Charles was several times at Burford, for it was the scene of muchfighting in the Civil Wars.

It was in the year 1636 that Speaker Lenthall purchased Burford Priory.He was a man of note in those troublous times, and even Cromwell seemsto have respected him; for, although the latter came down to the Houseone day with a troop of musketeers, with the express intention ofturning the gallant Speaker out of his chair, and effected his objectamid the proverbial cries of "Make way for honester men!" yet we findthat within twelve months the crafty old gentleman had once more gotback again into the chair, and remained Speaker during the Protectorateof Richard Cromwell. He declared on his deathbed that, although, likeSaul, he held the clothes of the murderers, yet that he never consentedto the death of the king, but was deceived by Cromwell and his agents.

The priory remained in the Lenthall family up to the year 1821. At thepresent time it belongs to the Hurst family.

We have now briefly traced the history of the manor from the time of theConquest, and, doubtless, all the men whose names occur have spent agood deal of time on this beautiful spot.

Alas that the garden should be but a wilderness! The carriage driveconsists of rich green turf. In a summer-house in the grounds JohnPrior, Speaker Lenthall's faithful servant, was murdered in the year1697. The Earl of Abercorn was accused of the murder, but was acquitted.

In addition to King Charles I., many other royal personages have visitedthis place. Queen Elizabeth once visited the town, and came withgreat pomp.

The Burgesses' Book has a note to the effect that in 1663 twenty-onepounds was paid for three saddles presented to Charles II. and hisbrother the Duke of York. Burford was celebrated for its saddles inthose days. It was a great racing centre, and both here and at Bibury(ten miles off) flat racing was constantly attracting people from allparts. Bibury was a sort of Newmarket in old days. Charles II. was atBurford on three occasions at least.

It was in the year 1681 that the Newmarket spring meeting wastransferred to Bibury. Parliament was then sitting at Oxford, somethirty miles away; so that the new rendezvous was more convenient thanthe old. Nell Gwynne accompanied the king to the course. For a hundredand fifty years the Bibury club held its meetings here. The oldestracing club in England, it still flourishes, and will in future hold itsmeetings near Salisbury.

In 1695 King William III. came to Burford in order to influence thevotes in the forthcoming parliamentary election. Macaulay tells us thattwo of the famous saddles were presented to this monarch, and remarksthat one of the Burford saddlers was the best in Europe. William III.slept that night at the priory. The famous "Nimrod," in his "Life of aSportsman," gives us a picture, by Alken, of Bibury racecourse, andtells us how gay Burford was a hundred years ago:

"Those were Bibury's very best days. In addition to the presence ofGeorge IV., then Prince of Wales, who was received by Lord Sherborne forthe race week at his seat in the neighbourhood, and who every dayappeared on the course as a private gentleman, there was a galaxy ofgentlemen jockeys, who alone rode at this meeting, which has never sincebeen equalled. Amongst them were the Duke of Dorset, who always rode forthe Prince; the late Mr. Delme-Radcliffe; the late Lords CharlesSomerset and Milsington; Lord Delamere, Sir Tatton Sykes, and many otherfirst-raters.

"I well remember the scenes at Burford and all the neighbouring townsafter the races were over. That at Burford 'beggars' description; for,independently of the bustle occasioned by the accommodation necessaryfor the club who were domiciled in the town, the concourse of persons ofall sorts and degrees was immense."

Old Mr. Peregrine told me the other day that during the race week theshopkeepers at Bibury village used to let their bedrooms to thevisitors, and sleep on the shop board, while the rest of the familyslept underneath the counter.

* * * * *

Ah well! _Tempora mutantur!_ "Nimrod" and his "notables" are all gone.

"The knights' bones are dust, And their good swords rust, Their souls are with the saints, I trust."

And whereas up to fifty years ago Burford was a rich country town,famous for the manufacture of paper, malt, and sailcloth--enriched, too,by the constant passage of numerous coaches stopping on their way fromOxford to Gloucester--it is now little more than a village--thequietest, the cleanest, and the quaintest place in Oxfordshire. Perhapsits citizens are to be envied rather than pitied:

"bene est cui deus obtulit Parca, quod satis est, manu."

Let us go up to the top of the main street, and sit down on the ancientoak bench high up on the hill, whence we can look down on the old-worldplace and get a birdseye view of the quaint houses and the surroundingcountry. And now we may exclaim with Ossian, "A tale of the times ofold! The deeds of days of other years!" For yonder, a mile away from thetown, the kings of Mercia and Wessex fought a desperate battle in theyear A.D. 685. Quite recently a tomb was found there containing a stonecoffin weighing nearly a ton. The bones of the warrior who fought anddied there were marvellously complete when disturbed in theirresting-place--in fact, the skeleton was a perfect one.

"Whose fame is in that dark green tomb? Four stones with their heads ofmoss stand there. They mark the narrow house of death. Some chief offame is here! Raise the songs of old! Awake their memory in thetomb." [4]

[Footnote 4: Ossian.]

Tradition has it that this was the body of a great Saxon chief,Aethelhum, the mighty standard-bearer of the Mercian King Ethelbald. Itwas in honour of this great warrior that the people of Burford carried astandard emblazoned with a golden dragon through the old streets onmidsummer eve, annually, for nigh on a thousand years. We are told thatit was only during last century that the custom died out.

How beautiful are some of the old houses in the broad and stately HighStreet!

The ancient building in the centre of the town is called the "Tolsey";it must be more than four hundred years old. The name originated in thecustom of paying tolls due to the lord of the manor in the building.There are some grand old iron chests here; one of these old boxescontains many interesting charters and deeds, some of them bearing thesignatures of chancellors Morton, Stephen Gardiner, and Ellesmere. Thereare letters from Elizabeth, and an order from the Privy Council withArlington's signature attached. "The stocks" used to stand on the northside of this building, but have lately been removed. Then the housesopposite the Tolsey are as beautiful as they possibly can be. They arefifteenth century, and have oak verge-boards round their gables, carvedin very delicate tracery.

Another house has a wonderful cellar, filled with grandly carvedstonework, like the aisle of a church; this crypt is probably more thanfive hundred years old. Perhaps this vaulted Gothic chamber is a remnantof the old monastery, the site of which is not known. Close by is anancient building, now turned into an inn; and this also may have beenpart of the dwelling-place of the monks of Burford. From the vaultedcellar beneath the house, now occupied by Mr. Chandler, ran anunderground passage, evidently connected with some other building.

How sweetly pretty is the house at the foot of the bridge, as seen fromthe High Street above! The following inscription stands out prominentlyon the front:--

"SYMON WYSDOM ALDERMAN THE FYRST FOUNDER OR THE SCHOLE IN BURFORD GAVE THE TENEMENES IN A.D. 1577."

The old almshouses on the green by the church have an inscription tothe effect that they were founded by Richard Earl of Warwick (thekingmaker), in the year 1457. They were practically rebuilt aboutseventy years ago; but remnants of beautiful Gothic architecture stillremain in the old stone belfry, and here and there a piece of traceryhas been preserved. In all parts of the town one suddenly alights uponbeautiful bits of carved stone--an Early English gateway in one street,and lancet doorways to many a cottage in another. Oriel windows are alsoplentiful. Behind the almshouses is a cottage with massive buttresses,and everywhere broken pieces of quaint gargoyles, pinnacles, and otherremnants of Gothic workmanship are to be seen lying about on the wallsand in odd corners. A careful search would doubtless reveal many a finepiece of tracery in the cottages and buildings. At some period, however,vandalism has evidently been rampant. Happening to find our way into theback premises of an ancient inn, we noticed that the coals were heapedup against a wall of old oak panelling.

And now we come to the most beautiful piece of architecture in theplace--the magnificent old church. It is grandly situated close to thebanks of the Windrush, and is more like a cathedral than a villagechurch. The front of the porch is worked with figures representing ourLord, St. Mary Magdalene, and St. John the Evangelist; but the headswere unfortunately destroyed in the Civil Wars. Inside the porch therich fan-tracery, which rises from the pilasters on each side, is carvedwith consummate skill.

Space does not allow us to dwell on the grandeur of the massive Normantower, the great doorway at the western entrance with its splendidmoulding, the quaint low arch leading from nave to chancel, and theother specimens of Norman work to be seen in all parts of thismagnificent edifice. Nor can we do justice to the glorious nave, withits roof of oak; nor the aisles and the chancel; nor the beautifulLeggare chapel, with its oak screen, carved in its upper part infifteenth-century tracery, its faded frescoes and ancient altar tomb.The glass of the upper portion of the great west window and the windowof St Thomas' chapel are indeed "labyrinths of twisted tracery andstarry light" such as would delight the fastidious taste of Ruskin.Several pages might easily be written in describing the wonderful andgrotesque example of alabaster work known as the Tanfield tomb. The onlyregret one feels on gazing at this grand old specimen of the toil of oursimple ancestors is that it is seldom visited save by the natives ofrural Burford, many of whom, alas! must realise but little theexceptional beauty and stateliness of the lovely old church with whichthey have been so familiar all their lives.

A few years ago Mr. Oman, Fellow of All Souls', Oxford, made a curiousdiscovery. Whilst going through some documents that had been for manyyears in the hands of the last survivor of the ancient corporation, andbeing one of the few men in England in a position to identify thehandwriting, he came across a deed or charter signed by "the greatkingmaker" himself; it was in the form of a letter, and had referenceto the gift of almshouses he made to Burford in 1457 A.D. The boldlywritten "R.I. Warrewyck" at the end is the only signature of thekingmaker's known to exist save the one at Belvoir. In this letterprayers are besought for the founder and the Countess Anne his wife,whilst attached to it is a seal with the arms of Neville, Montacute,Despencer, and Beauchamp.

On the font in the church is a roughly chiselled name:

"ANTHONY SEDLEY. 1649. Prisner."

Not only prisoners, but even their _horses_, were shut up in these grandold churches during the Civil Wars. This Anthony Sedley must have beenone of the three hundred and forty Levellers who were imprisoned herein 1649.

The register has the following entry:--

"1649. Three soldiers shot to death in Burford Churchyard, buried May17th."

Burford was the scene of a good deal of fighting during the Civil Wars.On January 1st, 1642, in the dead of night, Sir John Byron's regimenthad a sharp encounter with two hundred dragoons of the Parliamentaryforces. A fierce struggle took place round the market cross, duringwhich Sir John Byron was wounded in the face with a poleaxe. Cromwell'ssoldiers, however, were routed and driven out of the town.

In the parish register is the following entry :--

"1642. Robert Varney of Stowe, slain in Burford and buried January 1st.

"1642. Six soldiers slain in Burford, buried 2nd January.

"1642. William Junks slain with the shot of musket, buried January 10th.

"1642. A soldier hurt at Cirencester road was buried."

Many other entries of the same nature are to be seen in the parishregister.

The old market cross of Burford has indeed seen some strange things. Mr.W.J. Monk, to whose "History of Burford" I am indebted for valuableinformation, tells us that the penance enjoined on various citizens ofBurford for such crimes as buying a Bible in the year 1521 was asfollows:--

"Everyone to go upon a market day thrice about the market of Burford,and then to stand up upon the highest steps of the cross there, aquarter of an hour, with a faggot of wood upon his shoulder.

"Everyone also to beare a faggot of wood before the procession on acertain Sunday at Burford from the Quire doore going out, to the quiredoore going in, and once to bear a faggot at the burning of a heretic.

"Also none of them to hide their mark [+] upon their cheek (brandedin)," etc., etc.

"In the event of refusal, they were to be given up to the civilauthorities to be burnt."

[Illustration: The Manor-House, Coln St. Aldwyns. 214.png]

CHAPTER X.

A STROLL THROUGH THE COTSWOLDS.

"In Gloucestershire These high, wild hills and rough, uneven ways Draw out our miles, and make them wearisome."

_King Richard II_.

It cannot be said that there are many pleasant walks and drives in theCotswold country, because, as a rule, the roads run over the bleaktableland for miles and miles, and the landscape generally consists ofploughed fields divided by grey stone walls; the downs I have referredto at different times are only to be met with in certain districts. Onceupon a time the whole of Cotswold was one vast sheep walk from beginningto end. It was about a hundred and fifty years ago that the idea ofenclosing the land was started by the first Lord Bathurst. Early in theeighteenth century he converted a large tract of downland roundCirencester into arable fields; his example was soon followed by others,so that by the middle of last century the transformation of threehundred square miles of downs into wheat-growing ploughed fields hadbeen accomplished. It is chiefly owing to the depression in agriculturalproduce that there are any downs now, for they merely exist because thetenants have found during the last twenty years that it does not pay tocultivate their farms, hence they let a large proportion go backto grass.

But there is one very pleasant walk in that part of the Cotswolds weknow best, and this takes you up the valley of the Coln to the Romanvilla at Chedworth.

The distance by road from Fairford to the Chedworth woods is abouttwelve miles; and at any time of the year, but more especially in thespring and autumn, it is a truly delightful pilgrimage.

And here it is worth our while to consider for a moment how tremendouslythe abolition of the stage coach has affected places like Fairford,Burford, and other Cotswold towns and villages. It was through theseold-world places, past these very walls and gables, that the mailcoaches rattled day after day when they "went down with victory"conveying the news of Waterloo and Trafalgar into the heart of merryEngland. In his immortal essay on "The English Mail Coach," De Quinceyhas told us how between the years 1805 and 1815 it was worth payingdown five years of life for an outside place on a coach "going down withvictory." "On any night the spectacle was beautiful. The absoluteperfection of all the appointments about the carriages and the harness,their strength, their brilliant cleanliness, their beautifulsimplicity--but more than all, the royal magnificence of thehorses--were what might first have fixed the attention. But the nightbefore us is a night of victory: and behold! to the ordinary displaywhat a heart-shaking addition! horses, men, carriages, all are dressedin laurels and flowers, oak leaves and ribbons." The brilliancy of theroyal liveries, the thundering of the wheels, the tramp of thosegenerous horses, the sounding of the coach horn in the calm evening air,and last, but not least, the intense enthusiasm of travellers andspectators alike, as amid such cries as "Salamanca for ever!" "Hurrahfor Waterloo!" they cheered and cheered again, letting slip the dogs ofvictory throughout those old English villages,--all these things musthave united the hearts of the classes and masses in one common bond,rendering such occasions memorable for ever in the hearts of the simplecountry folk. In small towns like Burford and Northleach, situated fiveor six miles from any railway station, the prosperity and happiness ofthe natives has suffered enormously by the decay of the stage coach; andeven in smaller villages the cheering sound of the horn must have beenvery welcome, forming as it did a connecting link between these remotehamlets of Gloucestershire and the great metropolis a hundredmiles away.

Fairford Church is known far and wide as containing the most beautifulpainted glass of the early part of the sixteenth century to be foundanywhere in England. The windows, twenty-eight in number, are usuallyattributed to Albert Duerer; but Mr. J.G. Joyce, who published a treatiseon them some twenty years ago, together with certain other highauthorities, considered them to be of English design and workmanship.They would doubtless have been destroyed in the time of the Civil Warsby the Puritans had they not been taken down and hidden away by a memberof the Oldysworth family, whose tomb is in the middle chancel.

John Tame, having purchased the manor of Fairford in 1498, immediatelyset about building the church. He died two years later, and his soncompleted the building, and also erected two other very fine churches inthe neighbourhood--those at Rendcombe and Barnsley. He was a greatbenefactor to the Cotswold country. Leland tells us that the town ofFairford never flourished "before the cumming of the Tames into it."

You may see John Tame's effigy on his tomb, together with that of hiswife, and underneath these pathetic lines:

"For thus, Love, pray for me. I may not pray more, pray ye: With a pater noster and an ave: That my paynys relessyd be."

If I remember rightly his helmet and other parts of his armour stillhang on the church wall. Leland describes Fairford as a "pratyuplandish towne," meaning, I suppose, that it is situated on highground. It is certainly a delightful old-fashioned place--a very goodtype of what the Cotswold towns are like. Chipping-Campden and Burfordare, however, the two most typical Cotswold towns I know.

In the year 1850 a remarkable discovery was made in a field close toFairford. No less than a hundred and fifty skeletons were unearthed, andwith them a large number of very interesting Anglo-Saxon relics, some ofthem in good preservation. In many of the graves an iron knife was foundlying by the skeleton; in others the bodies were decorated with bronzefibulae, richly gilt, and ornamented in front. Mr. W. Wylie, in hisinteresting account of these Anglo-Saxon graves, tells us that some ofthe bodies were as large as six feet six inches; whilst one or twowarriors of seven feet were unearthed. All the skeletons were veryperfect, even though no signs of any coffins were to be seen. Bronzebowls and various kinds of pottery, spearheads of several shapes, alarge number of coloured beads, bosses of shields, knives, shears, andtwo remarkably fine swords were some of the relics found with thebodies. A glass vessel, coloured yellow by means of a chemical processin which iron was utilised, is considered by Mr. Wylie to be of Saxonmanufacture, and not Venetian or Roman, as other authorities hold.

Whether this is merely an Anglo-Saxon burial-place, or whether thebodies are those of the warriors who fell in a great battle such as thatfought in A.D. 577, when the Saxons overthrew the Britons and took fromthem the cities of Gloucester, Cirencester, and Bath, it is impossibleto determine. The natives are firmly convinced that the skeletonsrepresent the slain in a great battle fought near this spot; but this isonly tradition. At all events, the words of prophecy attributed to theold Scotch bard Ossian have a very literal application with reference tothis interesting relic of bygone times: "The stranger shall come andbuild there and remove the heaped-up earth. An half-worn sword shallrise before him. Bending above it, he will say, 'These are the arms ofthe chiefs of old, but their names are not in song.'" The "heaped-up"earth has long ago disappeared, for there are no "barrows" now to beseen. Cottages stand where the old burial mounds doubtless once existed,and all monumental evidences of those mighty men--the last, perhaps, ofan ancient race--have long since been destroyed by the ruthless handof time.

The manor of Fairford now belongs to the Barker family, to whom it camethrough the female line about a century ago.

We must now leave Fairford, and start on our pilgrimage to the Romanvilla of Chedworth. At present we have not got very far, having lingeredat our starting-point longer than we had intended. The first two milesare the least interesting of the whole journey; the Coln, broadened outfor some distance to the size of a lake, is hidden from our view by thetall trees of Fairford Park. It was along this road that John Keble, thepoet used to walk day by day to his cure at Coln-St.-Aldwyns. His homewas at Fairford. Two eminent American artists have made their home inFairford during recent years--Mr. Edwin Abbey and Mr. J. Sargent, bothR.A's. Close by, too, at Kelmscott, dwelt William Morris, the poet.

On reaching Quenington we catch a glimpse of the river, whilst high upon the hill to our right stands the great pile of Hatherop Castle. Thisplace, the present owner of which is Sir Thomas Bazley, formerlybelonged to the nunnery of Lacock. After the suppression of themonasteries it passed through various heiresses to the family of Ashley.It was practically rebuilt by William Spencer Ponsonby, first Lord deMauley; his son, Mr. Ashley Ponsonby, sold it to Prince Duleep Singh,from whom it passed to the present owner. Sir Thomas Bazley has donemuch for the village which is fortunate enough to claim him as aresident; his estate is a model of what country estates ought to be,unprofitable though it must have proved as an investment.

As we pass on through the fair villages of Quenington andColn-St.-Aldwyns we cannot help noticing the delightful character of thehouses from a picturesque point of view; in both these hamlets there arethe same clean-looking stone cottages and stone-tiled roofs. Here andthere the newer cottages are roofed with ordinary slate; and this seemsa pity. Nevertheless, there still remains much that is picturesque to beseen on all sides. Roses grow in every garden, clematis relieves withits rich purple shade the walls of many a cosy little dwelling-house,and the old white mills, with their latticed windows and pointedgables, are a feature of every tiny hamlet through which theriver flows.

"How gay the habitations that adorn This fertile valley! Not a house but seems To give assurance of content within, Embosom'd happiness, and placid love."

WORDSWORTH.

The beautiful gabled house close to the Norman church ofColn-St.-Aldwyns is the old original manor house. Inside it is an oldoak staircase, besides other interesting relics of the Elizabethan age.For many years this has been a farmhouse, but it has recently beenrestored by its owner, Sir Michael Hicks-Beach, the present Chancellorof the Exchequer, who intends to make it his country abode. A piece ofcarved stone with four heads was discovered by the workmen engaged inthe restoration, and is to be placed over the front door. It isdoubtless a remnant of an old monastery, and dates back to Norman times.

Williamstrip House and Park lie on your right-hand side as you leave thevillage of "Coln" behind you. This place also belongs to Sir MichaelHicks-Beach; it has always seemed to us the _beau-ideal_ of an Englishhome. A medium-sized, comfortable square house of the time of George I.,surrounded by some splendid old trees, in a park not too large, a coupleof miles or so of excellent trout-fishing, very fair shooting, and goodhunting would seem to be a combination of sporting advantages that fewcountry places enjoy. Williamstrip came into the family of the presentowner in 1784. The three parishes of Hatherop, Quenington, andColn-St.-Aldwyns practically adjoin each other. Each has its beautifulchurch, the Norman doorways in that of Quenington being well worth avisit. Close to the church of Quenington are the remnants of an ancientmonastery.

The "Knights Templar" of Quenington were famous in times gone by. Thereis a fine entrance gate and porch on the roadside, which no doubt led tothe abbey.

There is little else left to remind us of these Knights Templar. Hereand there are an old lancet window or a little piece of Gothic traceryon an ancient wall, an old worm-eaten roof of oak or a heap of ruinedstones on a moat-surrounded close,--these are all the remnants to befound of the days of chivalry and the monks of old.

We have now two rather uneventful miles to traverse betweenColn-St.-Aldwyns and Bibury, for we must once more leave the valley andset out across the bleak uplands. On the high ground we have theadvantage of splendid bracing air at all events. The hills have a charmof their own on a fine day, more especially when the fields are full ofgolden corn and the old-fashioned Cotswold men are busy amongthe sheaves.

And very soon we get a view which we would gladly have walked twentymiles to see. Down below us and not more than half a mile away is thefine old Elizabethan house of Bibury, standing out from a background ofmagnificent trees. Close to the house is the grey Norman tower of thevillage church, which has stood there for mote than six centuries.Nestling round about are the old stone-roofed cottages, like those wehave seen in the other villages we have passed through. A broad reach ofthe Coln and a grand waterfall enhance the quiet and peaceful beauty ofthe scene. But this description falls very short of conveying anyadequate idea of the truly delightful effect which the old greybuildings set in a framework of wood and water present on a fineautumnal afternoon.

Never shall I forget seeing this old place from the hill above duringone September sunset. There was a marvellous glow suffused over thewestern sky, infinitely beautiful while it lasted; and immediately belowa silvery mist had risen from the surface of the broad trout stream, andwas hanging over the old Norman tower of the church. Amid the rush ofthe waterfall could be heard the distant voices of children in thevillage street. Then on a sudden the church clock struck the hour ofsix, in deep, solemn tones. Against the russet-tinted woods in thebackground the old court house stood out grey and silent under theshadow of the church tower, preaching as good a sermon as any Iever heard.

"An English home, grey twilight poured On dewy pastures, dewy trees, Softer than sleep,--all things in order stored, A haunt of ancient peace."

Bibury Court is a most beautiful old house. Some of it dates back toHenry VIII.'s time. The most remarkable characteristic of its interioris a very fine carved oak staircase. The greater part of this house wasbuilt in the year 1623 by Sir Thomas Sackville. It was long the seat ofthe Creswell family, before passing by purchase to the family of thepresent owner--Lord Sherborne. The fine old church has some Saxon workin it, whilst the doorways and many other portions are Norman. Itsdelightful simplicity and brightness is what pleases one most. On comingdown into the village, one notices a little square on the left, not atall like those one sees in London, but very picturesque and cleanlooking. In the olden times were to be seen in many villages littlecourts of this kind; in the centre of them was usually a great tree,round which the old people would sit on summer evenings, while thechildren danced and played around. Gilbert White speaks of one atSelborne, which he calls the "Plestor." The original name was"Pleystow," which means a play place. We have noticed them in many partsof the Cotswold country. Here, too, children are playing about under theshade of some delightful trees in the centre of the miniature square,whilst the variegated foliage sets off the gabled cottages which formthree sides of it.

I have often wondered, as I stood by these chestnut trees, whether thereis any architecture more perfect in its simplicity and grace than thatwhich lies around me here. Not a cottage is in sight that is not worthyof the painter's brush; not a gable or a chimney that would not beworthy of a place in the Royal Academy. The little square is borderedfor six months of the year with the prettiest of flowers. Even as lateas December you may see roses in bloom on the walls, and chrysanthemumsof varied shade in every garden. Then, as we passed onwards,

"On the stream's bank, and everywhere, appeared Fair dwellings, single or in social knots; Some scattered o'er the level, others perch'd On the hill-sides--a cheerful, quiet scene."

WORDSWORTH.

There is a Gothic quaintness about all the buildings in the Cotswolds,great and small alike, which is very charming. Bibury is indeed a prettyvillage. As you walk along the main street which runs parallel with theriver, an angler is busy "swishing" his rod violently in the air to"dry" the fly, ere he essays to drop it over the nose of one of thespeckled fario which abound; so be careful to step down off the pathwhich runs alongside the stream, in case you should put the fish "down"and spoil the sport. And now on our left, beyond the green, may be seena line of gabled cottages called "Arlington Row," a picture of which byG. Leslie was hung at the Royal Academy this year (1898).

A few hundred yards on you stop to inspect the spring which rises in thegarden of the Swan Hotel. It has been said that two million gallons aday is the minimum amount of water poured out by this spring. Itconsists of the rain, which, falling on a large area of the hillcountry, gradually finds its way through the limestone rocks andeventually comes out here. It would be interesting to trace the courseof some of these underground rivers; for a torrent of water such as thiscannot flow down through the soft rock without in the course ofthousands of years, producing caves and grottoes and undergroundgalleries and all the wonders of the Mammoth Cave in Kentucky, with itsstalactite pillars and fairy avenues and domes--though the Cotswoldcaves are naturally on a much smaller scale. At Torquay and on theMendip Hills, as everybody knows, there are caves of wondrous beauty,carved by the water within the living rock.

Probably within a hundred yards of Bibury spring there are beautifulhidden caves, such as those funny little "palaeolithic" men lived in afew thousand years ago; but why there have not been more discoveries ofthis nature in this part of the Cotswolds it is difficult to say. Thereis a cave hereabouts, men say, but the entrance to it cannot now befound. There is likewise a Roman villa on the hill here which has notyet been dug out of its earthy bed. A hundred years ago a large numberof Roman antiquities were discovered near this village.

We now leave Bibury behind us, and a mile on we pass through the hamletof Ablington, which is very like Bibury on a smaller scale, with itsancient cottages, tithe barns and manor house; its springs oftransparent water, its brook, and wealth of fine old trees. We have notime to linger in this hamlet to-day, though we would fain pause toadmire the old house.

"The pillar'd porch, elaborately embossed; The low, wide windows with their mullions old; The cornice richly fretted of grey stone; And that smooth slope from which the dwelling rose By beds and banks Arcadian of gay flowers, And flowering shrubs, protected and adorned."

WORDSWORTH

After leaving Ablington we once more ascend the hill and make our wayalong an old, disused road, probably an ancient British track, inpreference to keeping to the highway--in the first place because it isby far the shortest, and secondly because we intend to go somewhat outof our way to inspect two ancient barrows, the resting-place of thechiefs of old, of whom Ossian (or was it Macpherson?)[5] sang: "If fallI must in the field, raise high my grave. Grey stones and heaped-upearth shall mark me to future times. When the hunter shall sit by themound and produce his food at noon, 'Some warrior rests here,' he willsay; and my fame shall live in his praise."

[Footnote 5: In spite of Dr. Johnson and other eminent critics, onecannot help believing in the genuineness of some of the poems attributedto Ossian. "The proof of the pudding is in the eating"; and thosewonderful old songs are too wild and lifelike to have had their originin the eighteenth century. Macpherson doubtless enlarged upon theoriginals, but he must have had a good foundation to work upon.]

A very large barrow lies about a mile out of our track to the righthand; as it is somewhat different from the other barrows in theneighbourhood, we will briefly describe it. It is a "long barrow," withthe two horns at one end that are usually associated with "long"barrows. In the middle of the curve between these ends stands a greatstone about five feet square, not very unlike our own gravestones,though worn by the rains of thousands of years. The mound is surroundedby a double wall of masonry. At the north end, when it was opened fortyyears ago, a chamber was found containing human bones. It is supposedthat this mound was the burying-place of a race which dwelt on Cotswoldat least three thousand years ago. From the nature of the stoneimplements found, it is conjectured that the people who raised it wereunacquainted with the use of metal.

Now we will have a look at another barrow a few fields away. This is amound of a somewhat later age; for it was raised over the ashes of abody or bodies that had been cremated. It was probably the Celts whoraised this barrow. The other day it was opened for a distinguishedsociety of antiquaries to inspect; they found that in the centre werestones carefully laid, encircling a small chamber, whilst the outerportions were of ordinary rubble. Nothing but lime-dust and dirt was